


My Lucky Day

by taggianto



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taggianto/pseuds/taggianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin has big plans for the day. Will his luck hold out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Lucky Day

_See a penny, pick it up, all that day you’ll have good luck…_ Martin thought to himself as he stooped down on the busy sidewalk. The bright copper penny glinted in the early morning sun, ignored by everyone else who bustled past. Vast rows of metal arches and glass that made up the terminal at Reagan National Airport swooped up into the sky to provide a solid modern backdrop to the organized chaos below. Taxis were constantly coming and going, carrying hurried passengers to their destinations. The sound of rolling luggage mingled in the air with the chatter of voices – businessmen yelling on their cell phones, mothers cautioning their children, couples reuniting with their loved ones.

Martin wasn’t quite sure why he had stopped to crouch down on the sidewalk. He had no idea what use he could have for a single American penny and he certainly didn’t normally give in to superstition. But having just come off losing his thirteenth consecutive round of “Fictional Character or Historical Figure” on the flight from Los Angeles, CA to Washington, DC, he felt he could use all the luck he could get.

“Ah, breathe in that crisp air, Martin,” bellowed Douglas as he came up behind his captain without his knowledge and quite literally made the man jump. “Twitchy this morning, are we? What are you doing crouched on the sidewalk anyway?”

“Nothing! Nothing! …nothing!” Martin stuttered quickly. “Just… tying my shoes!” He stood quickly, slipping the penny into his pocket as he smoothed out his uniform.

“Ah, well the third nothing quite convinced me. But nevertheless, I don’t really care. I’ve got to get to Warner Theatre by noon…” He glanced at his watch.

“Oh! Going to see a performance?” Martin asked, brightly.

“No, not as much. Going to see a dear old friend about a dozen Russian nesting dolls he is quite keen to give me as a gift. He knows I’m quite  _fond_ of  _matryoshka_ , just as I know he is quite  _fond_ of a certain type of Californian coffee bean…”

“So another one of your  _schemes_ then…” Martin murmured dryly. A look of indignation spread across Douglas’ face. He took a breath to start into some pompously sarcastic speech but Martin waved him off. “Oh, whatever. I don’t really care.”

Douglas nodded. “Right. So what are you going to do with your 24 glorious hours in this nation’s capital?”

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe go for a walk? See the sights? I’m not really sure,” he finished with a shrug. All of this was of course a lie, because Martin knew exactly what he would be doing that day. He’d known ever since Carolyn had told them they’d be flying to Washington, D.C. with a 24 hour layover before taking off again. But Douglas didn’t need to know that. He’d find some way to ruin it, somehow. He glanced around. “Where are Carolyn and Arthur, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Arthur happened to look into one of the shops in the terminal and spotted the rather large candy section. You know how Americans love their sweets. I’ve never before heard such a sound come out of a human being. Out of a  _chipmunk_ , perhaps…”

“Oh they’ll be there for hours then…” Martin chuckled.

“You’re in a rather fine mood this morning, _Captain_.” Douglas observed suspiciously.

“No! Well, I mean, I am… but not especially! Just… you know… nice to get out of the plane for more than the 12 hours Carolyn is begrudgingly forced to give us.” Martin tried to smile nonchalantly and merely succeeded in looking as if he were grimacing in pain.

Douglas squinted at him. “Right… well anyway. I’m going to stop off at the hotel before my  _rendezvous_ at the Warner.” A taxi had pulled up to the curb and Douglas was in the process of stowing his bag in the trunk. “Coming?” he asked, looking to Martin.

“No, I… think I’ll walk. Mind dropping my bag off at the hotel?”

“According to the reviews, it’s more of a hostel.”

“A hostel? America doesn’t have hostels. I thought it was called the Allen Lee _Hotel_.”

“Well, I think they were being rather overly optimistic with that name. Either way, fine. I’ll drop your bags off when I check in. Lord knows it’s the least I can do, after humiliating you in our little entertainment this flight. I think we’re both in the same room anyway… ”

_Great. Another night of dealing with Douglas’ snoring…_ Martin sighed. “More of Carolyn’s cost-cutting procedures, I assume?”

Douglas shut the taxi trunk and walked around to the passenger side door. “Naturally. Sure you don’t want a ride?”

“No, I’m good. Go on, you’ve your nesting dolls to get to.”

“Indeed I do.” Douglas climbed into the front seat of the taxi and saluted Martin. Then he turned to the driver, gave him the address and sat back as the taxi sped off. It was only after the taxi was out of sight with his luggage that Martin realized he hadn’t yet changed out of his uniform.

 

** \-- **

 

Martin stared up at the sky as he walked along Mt. Vernon Trail. He’d picked up the river path near the airport and was now strolling along the Potomac in Gravelly Point Park, watching the air traffic coming and going from the runways at Reagan National. It was still early - about 8:30 if his watch was to be trusted - but the path along the Potomac was far from deserted. Children rode by on bikes, others were tossing a baseball with their parents, still others seemed engrossed in a particularly riveting game of tag. There was also the steady stream of joggers going past in varying amounts of skin-tight clothing. If Martin had been paying attention, he would have noticed that quite a few pairs of eyes roamed appreciatively over his captain’s uniform.

If Martin had been paying attention, he might have also noticed the baseball headed directly for his head. As it was, he only turned as he heard a small child shout “Hey, Mister!” and then he felt something very hard hit the top of his head, knocking his hat off. Thrown off balance, he could only watch in horror as his nice, shiny, clean captain’s hat rolled merrily towards the riverbank.

“No!” he cried, reaching his hand out as if to pull his hat back by some mystical force. The hat carried on, unimpressed, toward its soggy destination. It was just about to bounce into the water when a passing jogger, looking up at Martin’s cry, spotted the hat, sped up into a sprint and caught it just before splashdown.

“Oy, mate. I’m assuming this is yours?” the man asked in a slight Australian accent as he trotted, grinning, over to Martin. He was wearing shorts and a tight-fitting Georgetown University tshirt and looking quite pleased with himself.

“Yes... yes, thank you!” Martin let out a sigh of relief.

“Must be your lucky day then.” The jogger handed Martin his hat. He then gestured to his uniform and asked, “You military?”

“Military? No, no I’m an airline Captain.” Martin replied, straightening up a bit.

“Oh, good on ya, mate! Wanted to be a pilot myself when I was younger. Suppose every boy did to some extent.” And with a smile and a little salute to Martin, the jogger carried on down the opposite direction of the path. 

Reaching into his pocket, Martin ran his fingers over the little copper penny. _Maybe it isn’t just superstition..._ With that thought, he donned his cap, wincing slightly at the sore spot forming where the baseball had discovered his head. Crouching down, he picked up the ball in question and tossed it absently in one hand while looking around for its owner.

He spotted a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties ushering a rather shame-faced little boy in Martin’s direction. “Now, Kevin. What do you say?” she said to the little boy , pushing him forward. The child made some sort of incoherent noise. His mother admonished him, “Kevin. Speak up. I’m sure this nice man has a very busy day.”

“msorry...” the boy mumbled, not daring to look up.

“It’s quite alright,” Martin said with a smile as he crouched down to the boy’s level. “Why, keep up the practice and maybe someday you could go professional with that throw.” With that, he handed the baseball back to the boy and stood up.

The boy’s mother smiled at Martin. “I really do apologize for him, sir. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I think I’ll survive,” he replied, smiling back. And with a tip of his hat, he carried on down the path.

 

\--

 

By the time Martin had crossed the George Mason Bridge and passed the Jefferson Memorial, his stomach had started rumbling. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the flight, and even that was just a small bag of crisps (because according to Carolyn, who needed catering on a tiny little five-hour flight?) The pedestrian path ended at a roundabout and Martin headed into the first eatery he saw - a place called “Potbelly Sandwich Shop.”

The interior of the restaurant was very cozy - decorated in a sort of vintage Americana style that Martin found inherently comfortable. The strawberry-blonde girl behind the counter smiled as she took his order, eyes roaming appreciatively over Martin’s uniform. Her fingers twirled through her hair and Martin found himself slightly distracted by her rather fitted Sandwich Shop polo.

“Are you a airline pilot?” She asked flirtatiously after she had entered his order - chicken salad sandwich, Iced tea and a chocolate chip cookie - into the system.

“No... I mean yes! I mean... Yes, _technically_... but well not really, I mean...” Martin blushed slightly and stood straighter. “I’m an airline _captain_.”

“Oh, that’s exciting!” she giggled, leaning on the counter. “Do you get to go to amazing places around the world?”

“Oh you know, here and there... ma’am...”

“Call me Lizzie,” she said with a wink. “What’s the most amazing place you’ve been?”

“Well...” Martin started, but before he could finish, another employee brought his sandwich up to the counter.

“Here you are then,” Lizzie set his order on a plastic tray. “That’ll be $7.80.” Martin handed her his expense card and she swiped it through the register. After a few seconds, however, her face went into a slight frown. “It says _insufficient funds_...”

“What? That can’t be right...” Martin’s heart sank. Just how little had Carolyn put on there, anyway? He watched, helplessly, as Lizzie swiped the card a few more times for good measure. _Just my luck..._ he thought, _and she was cute too... now she’s going to think I’m an idiot, or a fraud, or a loser, or a..._ Martin was so preoccupied with his inner monologue that he didn’t realize Lizzie had started speaking again.

He only caught the end of what she had said, “...on the house.” She looked at him with a bright smile.

Martin was utterly confused. “Beg pardon?”

“I said it must be something wrong with our system, so don’t worry about it. It’s on the house,” she repeated, winking at him.

“Oh... oh! Th-thank you!” Martin stammered. He moved to grab his tray.

Lizzie leaned in at the same time, slipping a scrap of paper next to his drink, “You’re cute when you blush,” she said in a low voice. This of course only served to make Martin blush even deeper, which seemed to be Lizzie’s objective.

Martin took his tray, noticing the scrap of paper with what looked like a phone number written on it. As he walked toward an empty table near the windows, he ran his fingers over the little penny in his pocket.  _Just my luck..._ he thought again with a chuckle.

 

\--

 

“Well, now this can’t be right...” Martin murmured as he looked up at the cement-and-glass building in front of him. After his lunch at Potbelly, Martin had walked toward the National Mall with a little bounce in his step. He passed the Treasury Department, the Washington Monument and the Smithsonian Castle with barely a sideways glance. At last, he had reached his destination. Only, it wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

There was a tall, shiny metal sculpture of some sort in the middle of the sidewalk. Beyond that were two long rows of steps, leading up to building created with what looked like several massive blocks of glass and stone laid in a line next to each other. Martin climbed the steps toward one of the glass blocks and sure enough, the building’s name was on the doors:  _National Air & Space Museum._

“No... no no no no no...” Martin opened the door and went inside. Immediately, his heart sank. It was just a room. Sure, there was a high ceiling with a few planes suspended from the rafters, but this wasn’t what he was looking for. A slight panic started to set in as Martin headed for the information desk.

“Hello, and welcome to the Smithsonian National Air & Space Museum!” chirped the cheerful woman behind the desk.

“This isn’t right, this isn’t right...” Martin muttered under his breath, glancing around the entranceway.

“Can I help you, sir?” the woman asked, slightly puzzled.

“The hanger... where is the hanger?” Martin asked frantically.

“The... hanger? Oh! You mean the Stephen F. Udvar-Hazy Center? That is located next to Dulles International Airport, in Chantilly, VA,” she recited in a overly rehearsed and sugary voice that quite clearly indicated she had been asked that very same question at least six hundred times that day. “It’s about a 45 minute drive from here, depending on traffic. Would you like a brochure...”

“No, I don’t need a brochure!” Marting interrupted harshly. Immediately he apologized. “I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I just... I _need_ to get to the... the... that place you just said... I need to...” he trailed off. He glanced down at his watch. 15:30. “What time does it close?”

“The center is open from 10:00am to 5:30pm,” the woman answered, somewhat warily.

“And is there a... I don’t know... a shuttle or a bus or anything that can get me there?”

“I’m sorry sir, we do not have a shuttle service to the center. You might be able to catch a bus out to Dulles, but I’m not sure of the schedule...”

Martin buried his face in his hands, “I haven’t got any American currency... I’m just on a layover for the night...”

“I’m sorry sir...” the woman said, helplessly. “I’m not sure what else I can do...”

“No... it’s alright...” he said absently, waving her off. “It’s just my luck...” he added under his breath. Martin moved slowly away from the desk to make way for a family who had been waiting behind him to ask about the current exhibits.

_Well, there you go Martin. Like you really thought it would work out for you._ He slumped up against a wall in the museum next to a display of various flight instruments. _Good job on you, getting your hopes up like that. And you still managed to screw it all up... such a simple thing to do, look it up! Surely you should have known there wouldn’t be a massive airplane hanger in the middle of the capital city of the United States of America..._

Gradually, Martin noticed someone headed in his direction. Blinking, he realized it was the father of the family that had been standing behind him at the information desk.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” the man said as he reached Martin, “but you said you needed to get to the Udvar-Hazy center?”

“Oh, er, um... well yes... Mr...?” Martin said, confused.

“Thomas. Brian Thomas.” He stuck out his hand and Martin shook it. 

“Mar... Captain Martin Crieff.”

“Yes, I could tell by the stripes,” Brain said with a smile and a gesture to Martin’s uniform sleeves. “My father was an airline captain as well, with Delta before... well, anyway,” he said, shaking his head, “that’s neither here nor there. What I came over to tell you is that I’ve got a ZipCar in my name for tonight, but Lewis - my son, Lewis,” he pointed over to where a woman and a young boy were standing and staring up at one of the aircraft attached to the ceiling, “well, he’s pretty much the biggest plane buff I know, so I don’t think we’ll be getting out of this museum any time soon.” He smiled up at Martin, who had a look on his face of complete confusion.

“I’m sorry... a... zip... car?”

“Yeah, ZipCar... you know, ‘Wheels Where You Want Them’ and all that...” Seeing that Martin had absolutely no idea what he was on about, the man elaborated. “It’s a hire-car service. They’ve got cars dotted all around the metro area, and all you need to do is reserve one, then walk up to it with your ZipCard and hey presto, you’ve got a ride for however long you reserved it for! Anyway, like I said, we won’t be needing to use ours for tonight, so if you still need to get to the center, you’re more than welcome to use it.”

“I don’t know what to say...” Martin stammered. “I... I haven’t got any money or anything... and how would I get your card back to you and how...”

Brian interrupted him. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t want any money from you. Just some help from one aviation fan to another. And as for the card, just drop it into any post office box you see and they’ll mail it back to me.” Brian pressed the card into Marin’s hand. “Listen, I know that tone of voice you had over there,” he said, quieter, gesturing toward the information desk. “I can tell this is really important and far be it from me to not step in and help if I can.”

“Thank you... thank you!” Martin cried, completely taken aback by the stranger’s kindness.

“Don’t mention it. Now here’s the address for the Udvar-Hazy center. Just put it into the car’s GPS and it’ll get you there in time.” Brian told him where to find the car and waved off another round of stuttered Thank Yous from Martin. “Go. You should be able to make it before they close.” And with that, Martin practically sprinted out the doors, fingers clenched on the plastic card in his hand and the copper penny in his pocket.

 

\--

 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, after getting lost only twice on the trip and shouting a rather alarming array of obscenities at the car’s convoluted GPS system, Martin had slammed the car into a parking spot. He glanced at his watch. 16:55. He just might make it. He took off across the parking lot.

Out of breath, Martin ran into the hanger of the Udvar-Hazy center, his eyes darting and searching around the massive space. Planes from all eras of aviation were on display, some hanging from the rafters, others parked along the massive cement floor. Panic started to set in as he couldn’t find what he had come all this way to see. He passed plane after plane, his heart sinking lower and lower with each one he went by. At long last, he jogged around the nose of a fighter jet and stopped dead in his tracks. There it was. Tucked back in a corner of the hanger, ignored by most of the museum’s visitors was an unassuming Armstrong Whitworth FK 8. Martin felt his knees go weak as he looked over the WWI-era biplane. A catch formed in his throat that threatened to turn into tears.

As if in a dream, Martin floated over to the plane and leaned on the railings that surrounded it. Pulling a faded photograph from his wallet, he looked from the plane in front of him to the plane in the photograph, both serial number C8602. The man beside the plane in his photograph was in sharp military dress, standing tall, straight and proud. Martin looked to his right and read the plaque mounted on the railing.

_In August of 1918, the British Army was planning to start a major offensive, but lacked vital information about enemy positions. At the first light of dawn on August 12th, Air Commodore Ferdinand Maurice Felix West and his observer, Lt JAG John Haslam set out in this Armstrong Whitworth FK8 for the enemy lines. Not long into the journey, West spotted an enemy concentration through a hole in the mist. Managing to avoid severe ground fire, they were nonetheless soon attacked by seven German fighter planes. Commodore West was hit in the leg and his radio transmitter was smashed..._

_Grandpa Freddy always told the story better..._ Martin thought, and in an instant he was six years old again, sitting on his great-grandfather’s knee. They were in the living room of the house Martin had grown up in, lounging in the overstuffed leather chair they both loved.

Six-year-old Martin was staring up at the aged man in awe. “What happened next, papa?”

“Well, my boy! My radio may have been smashed, but it was certainly not out!” His great-grandfather’s voice was rough with age, but it had never lost its fiery passion. His eyes sparkled whenever Martin begged him to tell his story. “I kept on identifying our location even as the Germans dogged our tail. Johnny kept them at bay though, and with God as my witness that man took down at least two German Fokkers with one pull of the trigger on his trusty Lewis gun!” the old man mimed the machine gun to six-year-old Martin’s delight, “Tat-a-tat-tat-tat!”

“Wow...” Martin breathed.

“But that wasn’t it! Oh no, we were just getting started! I weaved in and out of those Germans like a seamstress threading a needle. In and out and up and down! They hardly knew where to look. Johnny was able to get so many bursts at them they finally gave it up for lost and went crying back to their führer! Only once I had the enemy’s position confirmed did I turned my attention to my leg.” He dropped his voice into a low, suspenseful murmur. “I was losing blood fast. I knew we wouldn’t be able to make it back to our airfield, so I landed as soon as we had crossed into Allied territory.”

“Did you go to the doctor, papa?”Martin was leaning forward, hanging on every word, even though he had heard this story countless times before.

“Not yet, my boy, not yet! Oh, everyone was trying to shove me into a medical tent, but I insisted I had to deliver my message!”

“Didn’t it hurt?”

“Oh, it was excruciating son, but I had a duty to perform! I tied my trouser leg into a tourniquet, marched right into the officer’s tent and gave my report. Only after it was delivered did I let those meddling doctors at me.”

“And that’s when...” Martin trailed off as he pointed toward his great-grandfather’s left leg.

“Indeed it was!” The old man rolled up his trousers to show off the shiny metal artificial leg. “Chopped it right off, there in the medical tent! I spent three months being bounced around from hospital to hospital. They told me I’d never fly again.”

“But they were wrong!” Martin said with a giant grin on his face.

“Of course they were! No one keeps Air Commodore Ferdinand Maurice Felix West, VC out of the skies!” he said with a puffed chest, ruffling his hand through his great-grandson’s shock of orange hair. “Now you listen to me young man. You don’t ever let anyone tell you you can’t do something. You can do anything you put your mind to, you understand?”

“Of course, papa!” Martin put on as serious a face as a six year-old on his great-grandfather’s knee could muster and said with pride, “When I grow up I’m gonna be an airplane!”

“As well you should be! Always follow your dreams!” His grandfather answered, with just as serious a face. “And I’m sure someday, you’ll even get to be a  _captain_ of an airplane!” he added, a twinkle in his eye.

Little Martin beamed with pride. His great-grandfather was the only person who never laughed about Martin’s dreams. The boy craned his neck to look over the proud man’s shoulder and at an elegantly simple wooden box on the bookshelf to their right. “Can I see it again, papa?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course, my boy, of course...” he said, reaching for the box...

_Of course..._ The memory faded like an echo on the wind as Captain Martin Crieff stood in the museum hanger. He raised his eyes to the small pedestal next to the airplane’s plaque, not even bothering to hide the tears that were falling. There was a small medal encased within - a bronze cross suspended from a crimson ribbon. The words “FOR VALOUR” were inscribed below a lion bearing a crown. 

A card next to the medal read  _Victoria’s Cross; awarded November 9th, 1918 to Air Commodore Ferdinand Maurice Felix West for valour in the face of the enemy. b. January 19th, 1896 - d. July 8th, 1988._

Martin took off his Captain’s hat, placed it over his heart and bowed his head. “Thank you, papa,” he whispered. After a moment of silence, he stood up straight, threw a salute to his great-grandfather’s memory, and turned toward the exit.

 

\--

 

The ride back into D.C. was uneventful, Martin having succeeded in beating the GPS into submission. He parked the car in the designated ZipCar parking space near the National Mall and dropped his benefactor’s card (along with a note of thanks) in the first blue post office box he found. Martin checked his watch - 19:15. He headed into the park. The sun was just starting to set behind the tall, white column of the George Washington memorial  in the distance. He stood and watched as the sky swirled in clouds of purple, red, orange and yellow - all bouncing back from the reflecting pool ahead. 

Martin allowed himself a contented sigh. It had been a good day after all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the shining copper penny. His shining copper penny. He turned it over and over in his hand, running his fingers along the smooth edges and raised imagery. Reverently, he slipped it back into his pocket.

Maybe all he’d needed all along was a good luck charm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes! This is the first fanfiction I’ve ever actually completed. I’ve started ones in the past, but I could never seem to get past the first 1,000 words or so. I’m also a Silly American, and I wrote this without trying to be brit-accurate. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks so much to Mackenzie23 for beta reading!
> 
> 1\. The Allen Lee Hotel is a real hotel and according to its yelp.com reviews, it’s just the sort of place Carolyn would set our GERTI crew up in. Several reviews likened it to just-barely-above a hostel. It’s not often one gets to sort yelp reviews by LOWEST rating...  
> 2\. I actually downloaded Potbelly Sandwich Shop’s menu so I could get Martin’s lunch total accurate. And I browsed through their online gallery so I would know what sort of decor they had. Things like this amuse me.  
> 3\. The last time I was anywhere near the National Mall, I was in 4th grade on a Girl Scout trip. My descriptions of the area in this fic come from zooming around Google Street View, looking things up on the Flickr world map and visiting vacation websites. And yes, I even looked up travel times :D  
> 4\. The National Air & Space museum doesn’t have an Armstrong Whitworth FK 8 in its collection - the only WWI era British aircraft they have is a Sopwith Camel Snipe. Yes, I looked through the Smithsonian archives to see which planes they had in their collection :) But for reasons below in #5, it needed to be an Armstrong.  
> 5\. Air Commodore Ferdinand Maurice Felix West is a real person and a true badass. I actually squealed when I stumbled upon him while researching WWI era aviation and discovered he fit PERFECTLY into the timeline I had created for Martin’s great-grandfather. Seriously, look the man up.


End file.
